


Return of Kings

by Vevici



Category: Dragon Age (Comics), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Divergence, Comic: Dragon Age: The Silent Grove, Comic: Dragon Age: Those Who Speak, Comic: Dragon Age: Until We Sleep, F/M, Gen, Post-Dragon Age II, dragon age comic spoliers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-07-03 07:35:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15814368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vevici/pseuds/Vevici
Summary: After months away from Ferelden, King Alistair finally returns to his kingdom. Warden-Commander Mahariel waits for her love's return, not knowing just how successful Alistair was in his search for his father.





	1. Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not regularly updated. I add chapters when I can.

Ports were Mahariel’s most favorite and most hated area for a morning stroll: The sharp saline air from fish markets combined with small taverns never failed to make her gag, even though the winds of Amaranthine had delivered the stench all the way to Vigil’s Keep almost daily for half a year. Then there was the clamor only a large city could produce. But despite the sufferings of her nose and ears, her eyes received a pleasant treatment. Deep blue waters stretched under and beyond Mahariel’s toes jutting from the end of a dock. The sea swam on and on and on. In Amarantine, the Waking Sea eventually met the smudged outline of the coast of Brandel’s Reach; but in Denerim, the bay freely pursued the Amaranthine Ocean.

                That morning, however, it was not the rhythmic dance of the waves nor the cool breeze that earned a close-lipped smile from the Warden-Commander. It was the white sails of an inbound ship. Sails drawn, the three masts reminded Mahariel of the dozen portraits in the King’s Hall similarly framed by three draping curtains. Except those heavy drapes were of russet and maroon. The smile grew on her face from the anticipation of seeing a certain face in person very soon. Pulling the coat tighter against her neck, Mahariel raced toward the largest dock in the harbor.

 

                Calls and orders spilled from the deck and onto the quay while answers and welcomes were thrown back over the rails. A fisherman carting his load from a boat two docks away craned his head, and, having recognized a voice at the top of the gangplank, slipped the brown cap from his head to wave – whistling -- before continuing his day somewhat merrier than before. Smiling, Mahariel pulled her hood lower against the sun as she scanned the docking ship for a familiar smile. Gashes and splinters on the hull were certainly unfamiliar. So were several mix-matched oars on its left side. Port-side, was it? Some were  longer and thicker, as if fashioned in a different tradition.

                Before she could think on it further, heavy clanking reached her ears. A glance over her shoulder revealed ten fully-armored soldiers ducking from the outer gates of the port. A tall figure led the two lines, thick auburn hair picked at by the wind. Perhaps a dozen feet yet separated them when the knight looked in her direction, paused, then bowed his head. Mahariel returned the greeting before casting her eyes once more on the looming vessel.

                “I had not known you were already here, Warden-Commander,” Ser Perth said, soft-spoken as always, as he stopped next to her. “It would have been an honor and a pleasure to walk with you.”

                Mahariel raised an eyebrow at the knights who marched ahead and took to clearing the dock and its surrounding area of curious eyes. “So conspicuously? I thought we all agreed to keep a low profile.”

                Perth raised his shoulders and sighed. “I fear this is considered low profile for royalty.”

                With that, Mahariel frowned up at the deck, where sacks were tossed over the rails to waiting hands on land. “So far I haven’t seen any of royal blood.”

                A creak of leather signaled the tightening of Perth’s grip on the pommel of his sword. His eyes were on the ship’s scars. “As suggested by the letter, I doubt—"

                “Move on, you dogs! I’m not getting younger here.”

                Mahariel laughed. Isabela. The pirate captain was nowhere to be seen, but no one could blend threat and seduction quite like Isabela. As more deckhands unloaded crates and sacks and weaved baskets, three figures emerged. The first was short and stocky. Must be the _durgen’len_ contact.

                “Ah, there is master Varric Tethras,” Ser Perth confirmed.

                With a hand raised to block the sun, Mahariel noted a crossbow’s stock peeking over the right shoulder and a red coat with its buttons undone over the chest. A very hairy chest. “I’ve never seen such a…dwarf before.”

                Perth nodded, humming an agreement. “I had doubts about him. That is until I met the gentleman when His Majesty invited him to the palace.”

                Mahariel grumbled at that. If only she had left Amaranthine sooner, she would have met this Varric Tethras before sending the man she loved on a journey with him. But that was months ago; and the ship has returned.

                As Varric Tethras descended the ramp, the two tall figures, both dressed in hooded cloaks, followed suit. They moved as one, halting. The broader of the two had an arm around the other’s shoulder. Ser Perth seemed to notice at the same time Mahariel did, for they ran toward the dock until they found themselves at the base of the ramp. Her breath left her lungs; not from the sprint but because of two identical faces staring at her.

                Her eyes went to Alistair first. Hair like autumn pressed to his forehead by the cowl, eyes like honey wide with delight. His lip whispered a word, and Mahariel’s blood sang in her ears. As her name came with his breath, the man next to Alistair straightened his back. Standing tall, he cleared Alistair by an inch. Next to Mahariel, Ser Perth gasped. Then a series of thumps came from eleven fists crossing their chests in salute.

                “Ah,” the man said, voice deep yet strained. “I hoped we’d arrived quietly.”

                Alistair smirked, adjusting his hold of the older man’s wrist. “Oh, this is what is called quiet now.”

                The laugh tore from Mahariel louder than intended, and she quickly pressed her lips together. It was then that she noticed Varric Tethras beside her, arms crossed and eyes on her.

                “So,” the dwarf rasped. “You’re the indestructible goddess, huh. Somehow I imagined you taller.”

                Before Mahariel could even blink, a shadow loomed over her, large palms cradled her face, and warm lips parted her own. Grapes, wine, cheese, salt, and leather. That taste lingered on her tongue, bringing memories of many nights tangled by the fire to vivid focus, so much so that all she could do was look up into eyes filled with a vibrancy that even the best portrait could not capture.

                “I’m home,” Alistair said, arms winding around Mahariel’s waist.

                “So am I.” Mahariel kissed him again, longer this time.

                It was he who pulled away eventually, turning slightly to introduce the man with him. “Vie, this is Maric Theirin, eighth King of Ferelden, and my father. Father, this is Vie Mahariel.” He turned to her then, beaming.

                Mahariel put a hand to his chest. Too late.

                “Hero and Commander of the Grey of Ferelden, Arlessa of Amarantine, Champion of Redcliffe, Saviour of Kal’Hirol--”

                Mahariel elbowed his hips, making him stumble a little. She turned to the former king, who held onto Ser Perth’s arm, and bowed. “I go by Mahariel, Your Highness.”

                White beard framed Maric’s gaunt face, one that matched the long hair swept over his shoulders. Sullen shadows on his cheeks only served to highlight a set of proud cheekbones. His eyes, though heavy, studied Mahariel’s face with a focus she had not felt since meeting Loghain Mac Tir for the first time eight years ago.

                “Mahariel, I have heard much about you. Great things, all,” Maric said. “Please, no need for titles. I have not been royalty for years, not truly.”

                He seemed to sag against Ser Perth. Noticing this, Alistair slipped under his father’s left arm, supporting almost all his weight. At once, the Royal Guard flanked the two Kings of Ferelden as they ambled back toward the palace.

                A sigh tugged Mahariel’s attention back to Varric, now seated atop an oak barrel.

                “There is an interesting story waiting to be told here,” Mahariel said. “Will you and Isabela tell me over lunch?”

                The dwarf chuckled at that and lifted both hands, palm up. “Trust me goddess, I’ve already decided on a title.”

                "Are you an author, then?”

                Something rumbled in that hairy chest of his; whether a growl or a purr, Mahariel wasn’t sure.

                “I dabble in the literary arts from time to time,” he said slowly.

                A proud yes, then. Mahariel held out an arm in invitation to follow the royal guard, who were attracting more attention as the morning aged. “What did you call me earlier?”

                Another chuckle. “What, you mean ‘indestructible goddess’?”

                Mahariel frowned, adjusting the hilts of her dar’missan against her hip. “I am hardly that. About your adventures with Alistair... ”

                Varric was quiet for a while, staring at her face. Mahariel could imagine him stroking a beard if he had one. Then, with a laugh, Varric jumped off the barrel and sauntered to her.

                “Well, goddess,” he said, seemingly enjoying the deepening frown on Mahariel’s brow. “All will be explained once you read _The Silent Grove_.”


	2. Reunion

Rumors tore the palace from roof to floor, grubby hands overturning every stone and beam in search for a hint of truth. _Maric the Saviour is alive_ , the stable boys whispered to the cleaning maids. _King Maric is back_ , the maids murmured to the cooks. Down a long chain the word spread, growing fatter as it went.

                “Maker, this is why I asked you not to send the Guard, uncle,” Alistair groused, fixing Arl Teagan with a flat stare.

                “Your safety is the Guards’ priority, You Majesty. I sent as few men as I dared to.”

                Ser Perth and Vie would have been enough. Maker, Vie alone would have been perfect! Alas, heavy is the head that wears the crown. Maybe Alistair could commission a Dalish craftsman for an ironbark crown—much, much lighter than iron. Alistair and Teagan turned the corner into the northern wing, where the royal chambers sat in the comfort and safety of twelve-feet-thick walls that fell straight down to the private courtyard, which was also embraced by tall walls, only thicker. A maroon carpet dampened the chill set in the stone hall and muffled the thuds of heavy boots.

                “What of Isabela and Varric? Have they been assigned rooms?”

                Teagan nodded. “I ordered two rooms to be readied; although, I’m afraid Captain Isabela is nowhere to be seen. Master Varric himself joined the search for her.”

                Alistair stopped in his tracks. “I thought he was with Mahariel.”

                “He was, but he departed when Maric finally settled to sleep.”

                Maric, former king and Alistair’s father, was asleep in a royal guest room. Once again, the reality of Maric being alive bubbled in his gut, unfamiliar yet not unpleasant. What did he think of him? What would Vie think of him? How would Ferelden react? How would his father take in all that has happened in the thirteen years that he was locked away and used as an energy source?

                Alistair unlocked his jaw, wiggled it around, then sighed his frustration away, cloak slipping under the drop of his shoulders. He glanced at the two doors at the end of the hall lined with doors, then back at his sort-of uncle. He jutted his thumb at the royal chambers, and Teagan nodded. “Right. I hope Varric hasn’t told her any stories. Well. I need to talk with Mahariel”—Teagan smirked—"I’ll see you at dinner, uncle.”

                Just before the door closed behind Alistair, he heard the arl mutter: “Enjoy your _talk_ , Your Majesty.”

 

Citrus, rosemary, and leather. How Alistair missed the scent! The sharp tang of leather hung in the ante chamber, more pungent as Alistair neared the armoire tucked into the far-right corner of the room. Images bloomed from the corners of his own mind: a camp—only four, at first, that gradually grew into a caravan, then an army; twin daggers—flashing under moonlight like a spider’s web; a smile—teeth and dimples and tenderness.

                The sweet-sour scent of lemon balm broke Alistair from his reverie more than the opening of the bedroom door. His eyes snapped from the armoire to a beloved face framed by dark hair, which brushed a felt ribbon cinching a woolen robe. The first time Alistair had seen that face, it had been pallid and haunted. Now, eight years later, it was bathed in gold by the Anderfels sun.

                “I take it the court missed their king,” Vie said, leaning against the doorframe.

                Alistair scoffed, halfhearted, as his attention flicked between bright eyes and dark lips. “They missed someone whose job is to listen to their grievances, which they’ve bottled for four months. They don’t age like wine, these complaints.”

                His fingers undid the clasp of his cloak, his feet covered three steps, then his arms wrapped around Vie’s waist. “Did the Warden-Commander miss her King?”

                Vie laughed. Teeth and dimples and happiness. “Very much.”

                She felt her rise, chest pressed against his. Alistair bit the inside of his cheek to resist bending down, to keep himself from the lips he had dreamed of within the qunari war camp, Akhaaz. Lips that were inches from his own. Closing his eyes, Alistair placed a kiss on Vie’s forehead. Lemon wafted from her hair, from the room behind her, and no doubt from the pillows on the bed. He placed a kiss on her cheek. The warmth of her skin tingled against his own, more comforting than any weapon in his hand. He bowed his head and nipped her neck. Rosemary overrode his senses, clearing away the grimy aftertaste of dungeons and swamps.

                A sigh drifted from her throat, now exposed to Alistair’s lips, tongue, and teeth. The grip on his arms tightened, pulled him closer. “I still don’t like that you asked me not to come.”

                Alistair paused, the tip of his nose brushing Vie’s collarbone. “I’ll tell you this: there were times when I wished you were there. What would Vie do, I’d ask myself. Just so you know, your diplomatic methods didn’t work. But can we talk later?”

                Vie hummed, low in her chest. Goosebumps trailed after her hands, which glided over his arms, across his shoulders, up his neck, until her fingers tangled in his hair. She arched her back, toes pushing herself against his body. This time Alistair gave in to desire.

 

                A cock’s crow broke the grit in Alistair’s eyes. It must have been a rather large rooster to muster that kind of volume. That, or Teagan had started a chicken farm in the inner courtyard. He was about to return to sleep, having exerted most of his energy all night, when a feather light touch trickled from his chest to navel.

                “You’re awake.”

                Vie gave a satisfied smile, which made her chin dig into the ball of his shoulder. “You were mumbling.”

                Of course, he was. He traced her spine with a fingertip, smiling as he felt the roll of Vie’s muscles as she arched into the touch. “I bet you liked what you heard.”

                “I do like my name.” She kissed his chest, only to pull away.

                Alistair’s eyes followed the blanket’s slide down the curve of her hips. The sun had not yet risen to shine on his love, but what light that bounced into the bedroom showed enough to rouse him. He sat up, hands already pulling Vie onto his lap. Before he could do any more, a hand pushed against his chest.

                “You’re stalling.”

                “Could you blame me?” He really wasn’t. Well, maybe just a little bit. Mostly, he was just distracted. But, after another push on his chest, he performed a pout then flopped back on the bed. Vie jerked forward at the movement, a gasp jostled from her throat. Color flooded her cheeks and matched the rising heat in Alistair’s own face, yet the tilt of Vie’s head along with her raised eyebrow told him most of her interest laid elsewhere. “You’re not going to make me start from the moment I got on the ship, are you?”

                A finger ran in the middle of his chest, then back up again. “No. Not yet—” she smiled at Alistair’s grumble— “For now, start in Antiva.”

 

                The sun found the dark browns of Vie’s hair by the time Alistair told her of Yavana, another Witch of the Wilds. He had planned on locking his emotions away as he recalled the vague claims of Flemeth’s other daughter, he wanted to be matter-of-fact, stoic, maybe even kingly. But the words ‘great dragons’ brought a shiver through his body as they left his lips. Vie turned from the window then, robes swirling over thick rugs as she took Alistair’s hand, which somehow fisted around the armchair, and knelt in front of him.

                “Do you think there is truth in what she said?” she whispered, breath warm against his knuckles. The glint in her eyes told Alistair that some part of her wanted it to be true, and the frown on her brow told him she was already worrying about the implications if it were so.

                “Not the whole truth, I’m sure.” Alistair reached for Vie’s waist and pulled her on his lap. Her hands immediately brushed his hair, just as her lips did on his temple. “You’re not imagining me commanding an army of dragons, are you?”

                Vie’s fingers stilled for a second before continuing their way to the back of Alistair’s neck. The hesitation was shorter than a blink, but it was there. He reared back, eyes narrowed at a suspiciously blank face.

                “Please tell me you’re not thinking of going to the Tellari swamp,” Alistair said. It was in vain, he knew, but he still had to try.

                A smile crept to Vie’s lips, which was somehow worse, because she knew that he knew that if she wanted to frolic in some swamp, no one could stop her. “You can’t fully trust a witch of the wilds, but you shouldn’t ignore their words either. We need to know more about this dragon blood of yours.”

                Alistair stiffened at that, which started Vie’s hands to pet his hair again. “That can’t be true, right? I mean it’s too much like a fairytale, isn’t it?”

                A chuckle ruffled the strands over his forehead. “Alistair, you are a secret son of the previous king, sent to the chantry to avoid scandal, recruited into an honorable order, fought in the fifth Blight, reclaimed the throne in a duel; and now you’ve brought back your father who had been thought dead but in truth was missing for thirteen years.”

                Alistair pursed his lips and found himself frowning at his hand on Vie’s lap even as his back eased onto the chair again. Finally, he rested his head against Vie’s shoulder and murmured, “I’m living a fairytale. Complete with an indestructable elven goddess.”

                Vie’s laugh, that rare joyous sound, echoed in the room like crystal chimes breathed upon by the wind. Closing his eyes, Alistair clutched the sound to his chest. He would think on that laugh when it was time to speak about the bloody things that he had done, the horrors that Maric had endured, the hardship that Varric and Isabela, especially Isabela, had gone through because of him.

                For now, he snuggled against Vie and relished his return to her arms.


End file.
